


Sharp

by Sunflower82597



Series: UshiHina Weekly Prompts [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Blood, Bombs, Boxing, Consensual, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, Fighting, Gang Violence, Gore, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, Guns, Hand Jobs, Homelessness, Knives, M/M, Mafia AU, Mob Families, Mutual Pining, Post WWII Era, So no worries, Sorry guys, Tattoos, The Hinata's had a sad lil life, growing up on the streets, historical fiction - Freeform, idk just to be safe, idk lots and lots of violence i cant stress that enough, lots of fluff, mentions of societal homophobia, poke tattoos, possible historical inaccuracies, still ends up fluffy though, they get a happy life tho, traditional tattoos, what could be seen as child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-04 22:48:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10291973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunflower82597/pseuds/Sunflower82597
Summary: Ushijima Wakatoshi likes a man who's tongue is sharper than his blades.orThe line between love and hate is thin and often gray, making it easy to walk from each side of the spectrum. Sometimes two people are placed together by fate to blur the lines, destined to fall completely into each other--even if at first they don't seem meant to be.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! Here is my addition for this weeks UshiHina prompt! The theme was 'sharp', and I immediately had to jump on the Mafia bandwagon. I absolutely love 1930s/post-WWII mafia history, which made writing this an absolute joy. Now, I'm no buff, especially on yakuza branches, so I had to do some research for this. If there are any inaccuracies, please let me know! Also, there is GRAPHIC VIOLENCE AHEAD. Please read with caution. If anything else is seen as possibly upsetting, and I don't have it tagged, please let me know!
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoy!

_I'd sacrifice anything come what might, for the sake of havin' you near/ In spite of a warnin' voice that comes in the night and repeats, repeats in my ear: Don't you know little fool, you never can win? Use your mentality, wake up to reality/ But each time that I do just the thought of you makes me stop before I begin/ 'Cause I've got you under my skin. –_ Frank Sinatra, _I’ve Got You Under My Skin_

\- ☼-

The Ushijima family is strong. Wakatoshi has known this since he was a child, the mantra of their immeasurable wealth, indomitable power, and unbreakable web of connections solidified in his mind; he destined to take over the family trade, and as such, he was to learn early on what it meant to be truly powerful. It’s fair to say that he remained somewhat ignorant of some of the more _violent_ happenings—the macabre displays of viscera and coagulated blood spatters left as visuals for the men who did the actions and for those unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end—but he wasn’t _stupid_ either; he knows what his family does is technically against the law, but when the law was involved in their family business, who was to say that anything was truly illegal.

He remembers being taught the harsh, rigid role of what being the ‘father’ of the syndicate was all about; a father does not falter, a father does not cry, a father does not act brashly. Strangely enough, it’s his mother that teaches him these lessons, her family holding much more power as opposed to his father, and it is his grandfather that demands him to be the heir—his fathers pleas of letting his son have a normal childhood go unheard, and soon they stop all together. As Ushijima grows, the lessons stick, and he learns more and more through example and observation of what is in store for him.

When he’s twelve years old, he learns to fight. It’s borderline _brutal_ —to have a scrawny, skin-and-bone kid participate in champion level training. The swift jabs from experienced fists leave horrid, yellow-green bruises and blistered hematoma’s to the critical portions of his body, like that of his throat, knees, and jawline, his young bones fracturing and remodeling into older, stronger, more stable versions of their past selves, so they can hold steadfast against the onslaught of abuse. Skin splits and scabs around the exposed flesh of his knuckles and cheekbones, growing over into smaller, hairline scars and matted tissue masses.

He quickly learns to defend himself; he grows into an indomitable force that even experienced adults are wary of. His skills are observant and calculated—swift in delivery and crushing in force. He learns what the sensation of being the one to _break_ bones feels like, instead of the one to be _broken_ , and it’s almost _invigorating_ , that small rush of power and complete dominance he feels as he sends a nose out of alignment, or snaps fingers out of place; it also comes with the eating away at his core, guilt-laden and queasy. Ushijima wouldn’t necessarily say he’s prone to violence, that he likes being violent, or seeks out to hurt others out of turn, but in a hurt or be hurt world, he’d much rather be the one to defend himself and come out victorious; he knows what it’s like to be the one on the ground, bleeding and defenseless, and he does _not_ want to be like that again— _won’t_ be like that again.

His body grows and thickens as he matures into a taller, sturdier young man, still pubescent at the age of sixteen—the age at which he witnesses his first kill. A couple of punk reporters sniffed to close to his family secrets, to their business that wasn’t for the public eye, and they were swiftly going to be _dealt with_.

It’s almost hard to look at, these men bound to rickety wooden chairs, stained with dried, fibery strings of blood, the smell rotten and pungent, it’s metallic odor sticking to the air of the room as it permeates his sensitive sinuses. He resists the urge to gag, seeing pieces of epidermis and muscle tissue stripped away to reveal pale, cracked bones. Their faces were beaten to be barely recognizable, fissures of split skin, missing teeth, and pink-tinted saliva staining what was once tan, clear skin, their ears cut off in a symbolic gesture of _‘I’ve heard too much.’_ Eyes were swollen shut, abused crescent bruises swelling and spreading to the broken capillaries of the nose.

He remembers it so intensely, so _surreally_ , as if the sight had been permanently branded into his cortexes. He was unable to move from his spot at the entrance of the storage warehouse, wild-green eyes wide and scared, his trained mask of indifference and stoicism shattered and exposed to vulnerability.

“Wakatoshi, what do we do with pests?” his grandfather asks as he circles around the bloodied and broken men.

He swallows around the acrid bile that threatened to claw it’s way up his throat. He tries to steady his voice as he says, “We…exterminate them.”

His grandfather hums in agreement, hands on his hips, revealing the strapped leather holster that swung from his shoulders. “That’s right, we do.”

One of the men let out a hoarse, pleading cry, “P-p-please don’t—we don’t know anything—“

His grandfather whips his pistol out, cocks the piston back, and fires point-blank between the eyes. Ushijima’s ears ring uncomfortably at the sudden noise, hands clapping over his ears, eyes stretched impossibly wide in abject horror at the spritz of blood that flies from the man’s forehead and to the back of the floor, pieces of skull and gray matter falling like shards of glass from a broken mirror to the floor in a macabre mosaic; his vision swims, mind foggy with fear, and he _wishes_ he was anywhere but here.

He cocks the gun once more and points the weapon at the other man’s pallid face, shuttering gasps and quivering body ready to give out and collapse out of fear and exhaustion.

“One more time. What were you doing here, and who sent you?”

“It was just our newspaper agency! We’re just information brokers who got a tip, an’ came to snoop it out! That’s all!”

His grandfather purses his lips and lowers his weapon, looking over his shoulder to bark out, “Go to this firm and burn it to the ground. I don’t care who’s in it. Just destroy it.” He turns back to the man, and shoots, the abused body sagging limply against restraints, wound in his cranium dripping like an IV.

“And take them with you, and clean this mess before it stains. Leave his body out front of the building as a warning. No one touches the Ushijima family.”

Ushijima is sixteen when he first sees the violent, dirty hands of his grandfather’s trade, his palms and phalanges tainted with villainy that is inescapable.

When he becomes an adult, it’s expected of him as well—to get his hands dirty from first spilt blood, almost like an initiation, or right of passage—and he does so begrudgingly, time after time, like his grandfather commands, going on pickups and hustlings in the smaller outlying and neighboring towns and villages they have their feet in—their goal to pick up debts from protection services, gambling’s, and loans. The in’s and out’s of being head of the family start to become his daily routine as more opportunities and responsibilities are thrusted upon his young shoulders, all due to the old age of his grandfather, the onset of decay and illness crippling him to rule form his bedside.

The old man passes away when Ushijima is twenty-two.

He doesn’t cry, and he doesn’t miss the man, the deceased more like a figurehead for his sufferings.

Instead, he sees this as an opportunity—a chance to break the mold of what his grandfather had set before him—a chance to build an empire of his liking, with him at the head of the table and his hands completely clean. It was past due for the family ideals to get a revamp, to start fresh—a metaphorically clean, bountiful harvest after forsaken, bitter winters that reaped no reward.

No, Ushijima doesn’t cry that day; _he smiles._

\- ☼-

Bodies dressed in finely tailored suits and silken ties file into the large conference room, sitting side by side with their comrades in arms. Whispers filter through cigarette-laden air, the smell of bitter coffee and heavy smoke clinging to skin and hair, yellowing the already fragile walls. A projector screen is pulled down from the ceiling, covering a dusty chalkboard that was pressed firmly into the front wall. A burly man stands firmly at the front of the room, thin-framed, circular glasses perched on a broad nose, dressed in his police uniform, which was highly decorated in regalia and badges of honor from serving in the second World War. He clears his throat and nods to a man in the back room, signaling for the lights to be switched off. The room falls into a muted pitch, the whir of a turn projector silencing the hushed whispers with the insistent _‘click click click’_ of its’ reel.

The bright projector light shines on the screen, the first reel of images broadcasted for the officers and detectives to gaze upon. The images are stills, captured images of a crime scene from a few years prior; a building blazes, timbers of smoke billowing and staining the view of a clear day, making it appear overcast with the misfortunes that simmer and smolder below; bodies pile up outside as they’re pulled out of the smoking building, charred flesh dark on the sepia reel. The men inside the room cringe, some averting their gaze as the next slide clicks into place, and the man begins to speak.

“These are all ghastly images of the violent brutality that happened a few years prior—a journalist and newspaper printing company that was responsible for tabloids burnt down to the ground. It’s written off in the reports as manufacturing malfunctions, but I’m lead to believe through evidence that it was otherwise.”

A new image clicks in place—pieces of grizzly, dismembered pieces of what was once two men dumped in front of the street, left for scavengers and flies. “This is the obvious working of a mafia family. Observe the pieces missing from their bodies, and how they were murdered. It was a display of power and dominance—a silencing act. This case was an arson.”

A man stands from his seat in the middle of the room, hand raised, notebook and case file in hand, “If I may. I had been conducting investigations on the firm for a while and, by my findings, they operated not only as a tabloid, but they were also information brokers; it’s where a lot of detectives, gang members, and even civilians would go in order to find tabs on whomever they’re looking for. These two men pictured were the main ‘go to’. They had been sniffing around the Ushijima family at the time, or so my few sources say. If the speculations of gang activity are true, then it’s a logical conclusion that the Ushijima family was behind this.”

A new slide clicks into place, a photo taken out of eyesight of a tall, strong looking young man, face like stone; prowess radiates off of him, even through a photograph. “Thank you for sharing your findings, Mr. Takeda. Even if this is true, the chances of getting close to Ushijima are slim to none. After the recent death of Ushijima Senior, his grandson Ushijima Wakatoshi took over, and things have been completely switched around—he now refers to his group as ‘Shiratorizawa’.

The acts of violence aren’t committed by Ushijima and his gang aren’t as frequent, and if they are, they’re not by his hand, often conducted out of our jurisdiction, but they’re _violent_ and generally indicative of brute force. It doesn’t help that he’s begun to sink his teeth into the local politics as well…It makes him a much more difficult target, as we don’t know all of his connections,” he trails off with a sigh.

“But what about the new gang activity that has sprung in the Miyagi prefecture?” a voice blurts amongst the small congregation. Murmurs and whispers break out around the room, which hush after the older man clears his throat.

“Yes…I’ve…heard of the rumors, that ‘Karasuno,’ is being built from the ground once more. We aren’t too concerned of them, as no real reports have been submitted, and they were torn apart many years ago. We’ll leave their petty crimes for beat cops.

I want all personal to be cautious when dealing with potential mob threats—always have a partner, and be prepared to strike. Remember your training. We will try and further this investigation as much as possible, but more evidence is needed. Everyone is dismissed.”

The bodies filter out of the room, voices growing distant as they go their own separate ways. The man at the light waits for the chief, face grim. “You left out the parts of the growing unrest of the smaller gangs—them joining forces and seeking out allies around Miyagi…Ushijima won’t like having his space encroached.” he pauses to flicker his eyes around the still dark room, lips pursed in contemplation. “I can’t shake this feeling that I have in my gut—that something is gonna’ happen with this Karasuno group and some of the bigger dogs…”

“Who’s to know for certain? All we can do is sit and watch.”

The two turn their backs and walk out of the room, leaving behind the darkness and swirls of smoke that circle forebodingly like ghosts—an ominous message of warning for those that wished to investigate into these mob families—a promise of pain and _death._

\- ☼-

_It’s almost_ too _easy._

Hinata and a few members of his gang mates had spent days planning their little heist—a shipment of high class machine guns and weaponry was being shipped by sea under the guise of fruit and vegetables. Their little tip off was definitely worth investigating, and the cargo handlers definitely were none the wiser of their little plan—to grab what was closest to them, grab as much as possible, and destroy the rest, taking out anyone who dared get in the way.

They had waited for the men to finish unloading the wooden crates, setting the boxes down with a gentle delicacy, their contents worth hundreds and _definitely_ shouldn’t arrive to the buyer scathed; it was then that they decided to strike, turning the transmission of their pickup and stepping on it, sliding into place amongst the docks, already jumping put of the bed of the vehicle and springing into action. There was surprised shouts as the four split up into their designated jobs—Hinata and Kageyama dealt with the boys coming at them, while Tanaka and Nishinoya swiftly loaded up the back with the shipment.

It wasn’t much of secret that Kageyama and Hinata made a strange, symbiotic duo—they worked together in a uncanny sense of fluidity, despite their constant arguing and at times, blatant disdain for each other. But, Kageyama was good at making quick calculations of a situation, manipulating their resources and environment to make one better suited for themselves, which was something the young, gung-ho redhead wasn’t the best at. Though, Hinata added his quick agility, endurance, and tenacity to the mix—plus his exceptional street smarts and knife skills—making the duo formidable foes to any poor, unsuspecting fool who got in their way.

It also helped that the two had a _small_ affinity for pyrotechnics.

Hinata giggles freely as Kageyama tosses another well-aimed cherry bomb his way, which he gracefully plucks from the air. He lights the fuse and tosses it down the path of the oncoming assailants; the bomb goes off with a loud _‘bang!’,_ sending a pleasant tingle of electricity up the small mans’ spine. Splinters of wood and metallic shrapnel scatter into the air and harpoon into their surroundings—including the bodies that were unfortunate enough to be caught in the line of fire, their bodies flailing as they try to cover their faces as they’re blown backwards from the blasts, and over the sides of what was left of the docks.

He titters on his feet as Tanaka and Nishinoya croon a _‘Yeeehoo!’_ at the particularly powerful blast, quickly tying down the crates of stolen merchandise onto the back of their pick-up. A new wave of gunfire sounds through the docks and the four duck down, pupils dilating as they scan the area for the new threat. Hinata spots the two armed goons, artillery shells littering the ground as they spray the area in hopes of hitting the thieves—clearly unskilled in the use of guns as they only manage to put holes into their own shipment.

_“Over there!”_ he shouts over the noise, getting Kageyama’s attention and pointing by the entrance of the barge; the two men ducked behind the metal frame of the ship—one on the left, the other on the right—a waft of smoke giving them slight cover.

Kageyama shares a sharp grin with Tanaka before whipping his head to Hinata, pulling out one of his favorites—a small handmade bomb with a sharp knife encased in the middle of it so that the handle and blade are still accessible—handing it to him gently, “Go get ‘em! Last one, so make it count!”

Hinata gives him a mock salute before darting off in the assailants, ducking behind crates as shots aim at immobilizing him, ricocheting around his feet and legs, but their poor aim is unable to match Hinata’s demon-like agility. He rolls behind a tower of crates before darting to the opposite side as his previous hiding spot is littered with bullets. He breathes out a huff of breath as he steels his nerves, hand tightening around the handle of his trusty weapon. The redhead pops up and charges, lighting the end of the fuse, thoroughly catching the two men off guard. He uses their surprise to his advantage, giving the knife hybrid a little toss up before catching it by the blade and chucking it full throttle at the head of the man to the right.

He holds his breath, seconds ticking by like hours as he waits for the successful, sickening _‘thunk’_ of the metal meeting hard flesh; the weapon lands its’ original course and the man’s eyes roll back into his skull as blood dribbles down the front of his face, body slumping down to the knees as he falls to the ground. The man on the left only has a moment to scream in horror before Hinata skips backwards on his heels, twisting around and running back towards his cheering family— only has a moment before the deafening sound of a contained, metallic explosion reverberates in their eardrums, leaving them ringing and aching; a sensation both painful and pleasing, as it signals their success.

They jump into the loaded vehicle, drenched with sweat and stinking of gunpowder and adrenaline, spirits high as they clap each other on the back and ruffle already mused hair (or in Tanaka’s case, his scruffy, shaved head), their screeches about _‘How fucking awesome was that?!’_ and _‘Holy shit, kid! Just how good are you with those things?! Also, excellent craftsmanship, Kageyama!’_ almost deafening in the cramped space of the truck.

The ginger’s cheeks feel ready to burst from the force of his grin, pleasant curls of warmth spreading through his stomach at the praise, honey gaze turning to stare out the window. He really _loves_ his ragtag adoptive family—he knows being apart of a mafia family isn’t necessarily something his mother would approve of, or so he thinks, but after loosing his father to the war, and his mother to sickness…it’s a much better option than living on the streets with his little sister, like they had to do all of those painful years prior. Sugawara and Sawamura became sort of like their adoptive parents, strangely enough—like their _saviors_ —a way to escape the starvation and constant fight for survival they faced on the daily.

Hinata was already almost an adult when the two had found them, or rather _caught them_ , as they were trying to steal scrap metal to sell for petty coins so they could eat for the next week. He knew what he looked like—a street rat matted and covered in dirt, scars littering his thin, scrappy arms and hollwed cheeks from picking fights with the other local street urchins; it was a kill or be killed world, and he’d be damned if he was going to leave his little sister, Natsu, alone in the world to fend for herself. He learned how to steal, how to fight, how to use a knife— _how to kill._ He remembers the first time his hand was forced to deal out deathly blows.

Two drunkards twice their age and easily twice their height had begun to creep up from behind them, grimey fingers clutching at his sister’s thin wrist, yanking her back and cooing sickening slurrs in her ear as she cried out in pain from the pressure on her arm, desperately trying to wiggle free. He quickly swung around and tried to punch at the man, only to be knocked on the side of the head by his companion, his small amount of weight easily tossed aside like a rag doll. Natsu had reached a small hand out, screaming for her brother’s safety, when something inside the older boy had snapped. Using his small body and quick speed, he darted up and pulled his dull butterfly knife from his dirtied, ill-fitted trousers, whipping the blade into place as he blindly began slicing upwards at warm flesh, eyes squeezed closed as tears prickle at the corners of his dark lashes, the feel of warm, slick liquid, and a grunted curse of pain almost causing him to gag.

He opened them again to see what damage he had done, almost wishing for a second that he hadn’t, as oozing slices were splintered unevenly across his torso and up around the neck. The man fell to the ground with a sick gurgle coming from his throat as he clutches at his neck with his two hands, eyes wide in shock as they stare at Hinata, the unevenly dilated pupils beginning to even out as death curled around sickeningly black at the edges of the man’s vision. He _‘thunks’_ to the ground as his companion gasps in dulled shock, stepping back from the fresh corpse.

_“Y-you kids are crazy! I’m out of here!”_ he turns on his heels and stumbles down the path he came, running away from the scene.

Hinata turns to Natsu and quickly scrambles over to her, gently grasping at her arms and turning them over, assessing for any damage. He pulls her sobbing form to him, careful not to wipe the crusting, drying blood onto her sweater and dress, his own eyes finally swelling and releasing their own tears. He buried his face into the side of her neck, gasps of _‘I’m so sorry,’_ falling onto understanding, young ears, his sister doing her best to comfort the traumatized boy.

It unfortunately got easier after that, if he had to cut people down to get what they needed to survive, and the confrontation from the two men in the mechanic shop they tried to scavenge from felt no different than from experiences prior; he was ready to strike, weapon pulled out at a blinding speed, free arm held up defensively in front of Natsu.

The one tan skinned man had dark brunette hair, cropped short, in almost a military cut, which would match his overall stocky, firm body and stance. He was dressed in a well-fitted suit; it looked expensive, made of fine materials and tailored perfectly, a black shirt almost unseen against the dark material of his coat. The look was complete with a tie and pocket square of matching, orange silk that stuck out brightly against the dark, black material of his coat and trousers, his cufflinks snapped securely in place, made of a shiny, beautiful, solid gold. His dark eyes narrowed as he stepped forward, aggressive set to his jaw, ready to rip the boy apart if need be for threatening them.

A delicate, pale hand held up ceased the man’s movement. The suited man looks ready to protest, but falls silent at the firm look he’s given by the more effeminate looking man. Hinata would admit that the other was absolutely _beautiful_ —all pale skinned, ashen haired, full, frowning pink lips and eyes like the color of weak tea, a beauty mark placed lovingly under his left eye; the fact that he was dressed in a silken _kimono_ just added to his overall attractiveness. The silky material was fitted securely to his slender frame, the material similar in color to his companions’ tie and pocket square, delicate, golden-thread embroidery depicting crow feathers seemingly floated downwards towards his feet, where they then fell into light, airy piles. A dark gray _obi_ was fastened around his waist, matching that of the dark, heavy, woolspun _haori_ jacket that hung long and loose on his pale shoulders; he was a true display of high-class elegance.

It wasn’t the clothing that took the younger man off-guard, but rather the look of pure concern and gentleness that was plainly displayed on his features. It was strange, to be looked at in such a way—a way that reminded him of his mother when he would come home scratched up from playing outside, or when he would fall ill with a small case of fever—something tender and unguarded and _motherly._

“You poor dears…you look hungry. Would you please put your knife away and join me for dinner? We were just heading that way, and we have plenty of room for you two,” he says softly, kneeling slightly to their eye level, holding his hands out for the two to take hold of. Hinata obliges, slipping his weapon into his pocket, and he almost feels ridiculous, being completely enraptured in the delicate nature of the man, enough so that he feels startled when he slides his scruffy hand into the soft, welcoming one of the older man’s, as if he didn’t notice that he had done so; he looks to his sister, who does the same, almost tentatively, and huffs a small sigh of relief.

The ashen blond smiles brightly, “Thank you. My name is Sugawara Koushi, and this is…my partner, and body guard, Sawamura Daichi,” he leans in to whisper, smile turning coy, “I know he looks kind of scary, but he’s actually a _huge_ softy.”

He giggles in delight at Sawamura’s noise of indignation, his arms crossed over his chest. “You can also just call me Suga—everyone does.”

“Everyone?” Hinata finds himself asking.

Suga nods, “You’ll see. Come on, now. Before we’re late for dinner.” He stands to his full height, tugging on their hands. He leads them to the back room of the mechanic shop, where he knocks three times in a quick staccato against the wall, which then opens up to a tall, indifferent looking blond man, who nods a welcome to the two familiar men before narrowing his eyes at the smaller redheads.

“Picking up more street trash, I see. They should start giving you a reward for being such a good citizen, Suga-san,” he snorts in ire.

Hinata bristles and opens his mouth to retort, but is cut of by Suga’s cheeky giggles, “My, my. Charming as ever Tsukkishima. Keep acting like that and you’ll never pick up a dame…” he releases the two’s hands and walks up to him, a hand clapping harshly on his shoulder, “Plus, I’d hate to see you thrown back out to the streets, just like where I scraped your bleeding, weak little body off the gravel. Imagine if you _somehow_ wound up in that same position—broken and dying with nowhere else to go,” he tsks, shaking his head, leaning in to whisper saccharinely, “It would be best to remember your place, Tsukki,” his eyes are sharp and all traces of humor wiped from his face, full lips pressed thin in displeasure.

The blond swallows thickly, and adverts his gaze, glaring off to the side, “Yes, Sugawara-san.”

The smile returns, reaching a hand to slap a pat at the side of his face, “Excellent! Besides I know you’d miss a certain bespeckled brunette if I tossed your smartass from my family,” he teases, pleased at the red flush that stains the blonds’ face and the fact that there isn’t a smart-mouthed retort to follow.

Hinata furrows his brows. _‘Family?’_ he questioned internally in confusion. Suga waves a hand over his shoulder, beckoning the trio to follow him once more, and Hinata forgets his pondering, curiosity overtaking his mind; Suga misses the sympathetic look Daichi gives to the taller blond man, as well as the piercing glares shared between Tsukkishima and Hinata. They walk down a tight stair well and down into an open floor, which makes Hinata and his sister gasp in surprise; _Suga-san lead them to a speakeasy_.

The basement-like space was decorated in rich, warm colors, dark-stained wooden chairs and tables upholstered with soft crème tablecloths and cushions, glass ashtrays adorning the tops next to small tea-light candles, casting soft warm light over the tables that paired well with the dull orange glow from the overhead lamps. A well-constructed stage sits at one end of the large room, a lone microphone stand and piano sitting in invitation for anyone to come and grace the keys with sweet melodies.

At the opposite end sat a long bar, the wood equally as dark and well crafted, the curled ends engraved and carved to make notches and floral embellishments, barstools pushed up under the island countertop; a wine glass holder hung suspended from the ceiling, shadowing over the bar-top. Behind the counter was an open, glass display case pushed up against the wall, lined with malt liquors, moonshines, fruit wines, sakes, and other distilled alcohols, each in special looking glass bottles; it was gorgeous and very modern, western flavors evident in its’ style, furnishings and layout. To the right of the bar was a swinging door, where he was certain food was prepared, guessing from the mouth-watering smell that wafted around the basement.

Sugawara-san chuckled at their looks of complete awe, walking further into the room, “Come on, you can explore later. We all eat together back here,” he waves for them to follow once more, walking through the swinging door with a flourish. Hinata squints against the brighter lit room, and finds himself in awe once more, at the sight of the massive dinner being laid out in a communal dining fashion on a long, rattier looking, short table. There was a cushion seated at the head of the table, left empty, as well as one seat to the right of that. A long chain of other, mismatched cushions are filled with people, their loud squawks and chuckles echoing in the smaller kitchen; the overall feel of a jovial family.

The ashen haired man turns and smiles at the two guests, “Welcome to Karasuno. We have much to discuss, don’t we? Come eat and tell me about yourselves.”

The siblings nod and walk further into the room, and once the group notices Suga they abruptly stop their conversations, standing up and bowing respectfully, inclusive shouts of _‘Welcome home!’_ escaping past their lips.

Suga smiles warmly, “Thank you, everyone. Please, make room for our guests. Preferably next to me.”

There’s quick shuffling of bodies, two more seats opening up next to the head of the table. He walks around to the front of the table, gracefully folding himself down onto his plush seat, motioning for the others to do the same. They all pick up their set of chopsticks, saying a quick, _‘Thank you for the meal!’_ and digging in, greedy little fingers snapping up the biggest pieces of different fried or grilled meats, stir-fried vegetables and steamed fish, bowls of rice scooped for each member of the table.

Suga snorts, scooping some of his selected choice of food into his mouth, shaking his head at his group’s antics. “What a bunch of trashy birds,” he tsks with endearment, sharing a smile with Daichi who is also shaking his head with a chuckle.

A highly freckled boy with an ungodly cowlick leaned forward from his spot at the table, eyebrows scrunched. “Suga-san? Where’s Tsukki?”

Suga hums with a grin, saying cryptically, “Oh, I don’t think he’s very hungry today.” The brunette kisses his teeth and looks down with a slow nod, going back to his own dinner.

The room remains in relative silence as they dine, only the clinking of dinnerware and the occasional giggle breaking the comforting air of the room. When the ashen haired man notices his two guests quietly picking at their food, he frowns, leaning to his left to whisper to the two, “You can eat more than that. I know you’re hungry. Please fill up.”

The siblings share a look before tentatively reaching for more food, eating it slowly, before taking more in a haste, chewing thoroughly before swallowing and picking up another piece, filing up their stomachs as tears fill their eyes and stream down their cheeks, leaving wet tracks down paper-thin cheeks—relief at not having to fight for a meal and exhaustion overwhelming their tired, weakened bodies.

Suga hides his relieved smile behind his hand, reaching over the table to use his cloth napkin to dab at their eyes gently, shushing their small hiccups. When the eating and conversation dies down, each person casting a small nod of welcome their way before saying their dismissals, Suga sets his eating utensils down and turns to the two redheads, “Want to tell me who you two are and why I found you two scavenging in my mechanic shop?”

Hinata gulps down the last bite of his food, belly distended, pleasantly uncomfortable in its’ fullness, but his gaze remains on the table, head hung low in shame; he tells him everything—their names, about their families death, their life growing up, and even the time in the alleyway. Suga soothes him through his choked, hiccupped cries, patting the jointed hands of the siblings, the two clutching each other’s hand tightly, unwilling to let the other recount the painful memories alone.

Suga furrows his brows when the young man falls silent. “How old are you Hinata?”

Hinata scrubs at his eyes, “I’m e-eighteen.”

Suga’s and Sawamura’s eyes mirror each other—wide and surprised. Suga slaps a hand against his forehead, “Oh my goodness! I thought you…you were a _child!_ You’re so small and thin…” he flushes in embarrassment, frowning once more, “I guess it makes sense, if you’ve been by yourselves since you were children…”

Hinata huffs, cheeks puffed, “I’m not _that_ small.”

Suga lets out a weak chuckle, “No, not terribly. Just…thin…”

Hinata shrugs, unable to argue against the claim.

The older man contemplates for a moment, mulling over something in his head, he leaned over to whisper something to Sawamura, who pursed his head and nodded. Suga turns his familiar, warm smile on the two. “Well, I have an offer for you two. We want you two to stay here with us permanently. But there are conditions to the offer…” he taps a thin, pale finger against his chin.

“See, a lot of the people here actually have a similar situation as you two do, coming from nothing and seeking some sort of refuge. We’ve made a very good ragtag family here. But, when I say family, there are also secondary meanings associated with what we call ourselves. When we started, it was just Daichi, Asahi—the tall man with the long hair and beard—and I. We grew up together, but were left abandoned due to tragedy. We struggled to survive, much like you two have, and soon found ourselves becoming somewhat like the old _Tekiya_ , or peddlers, taking stolen merchandise and selling it to buyers. We got some attention from a local group here, which welcomed us to merge with them with open arms—a group named Karasuno.

We soon found ourselves new initiates into a mob family, and we eventually outlived the small number of members—whether by death or by choice of leaving. With the gang now in our hands, we decided to change things up a bit, and I soon found myself appointed as head of the family; I inherited the building, including the mechanic shop upstairs and the hidden bar. Once the wind caught that Karasuno was being ran by a younger group of men, we began to attract some of the younger kids—usually boys orphaned at a young age, but a few young ladies looking for a safe haven. We were able to take a few under our wing, like the ones you saw here today. Before long, we became a family.”

Suga paused in his story, lips pursed, glancing at Daichi and then the two younger kids. Surprisingly it was Daichi that spoke up, his deep rumble breaking the moment of silence, “We’re different than most, but that doesn’t mean that what we do isn’t illegal—it is. We are welcoming you a place in our, under the conditions that you work with us—whether internally at the bar or in the shop or kitchens, or out in the actual fieldwork. Some do both, but it is essentially up to you what you decide.”

Hinata pipes up almost immediately, breath escaping him in a rush of excitement at being given an opportunity at an easier life, at a chance for survival, “Both. Let me do both.”

Suga smiles and nods, “I’m sure we’ll find the perfect fit for you,” he glances at Natsu, waiting for her answer. She smiles for the first time that night, “Please allow me to stay and help out somehow in the kitchens or otherwise…I’m not much of a fighter.”

The boss claps his hands together, “Oh, this is just perfect! I will put you with our lovely young ladies—Kiyoko, Yachi, and Saeko—they all have very different jobs, but I know they’ll just _adore_ you, and find some way for you to help!”

Daichi and Suga smile warmly at them, murmuring together, _“Welcome home.”_

Hinata is snapped from his reverie when his shoulder is shoved, causing his head to smack into his window. He squawks and whips his head around at the chuckling Kageyama, “Come on dumbass, we’re home already. Help us unload the crates.” Hinata smiles and nods, hopping out of the car and skipping to the back of the truck, dragging the heavy boxes out and stacking them up inside the shop.

There was a lot that changed over the years—he’s healthy and filled out, gaining back lean muscle mass from training and fine tuning his skills with Daichi and from eating full meals daily—even growing an inch or two from the gain of nutrition. More color is present in his features, his hair brighter, skin warmer and tanned from work, the flesh decorated with late blooming freckles and freshly adorned with his new families mark—a traditional poke tattoo detailed into the soft flesh of his shoulders and back—a beautifully detailed crow spread open in flight against the span of his shoulders, dark black in color, shaded with dark gray and outlined in a sunny orange to define it’s features, free-floating feathers poked in delicate, golden orange fluttering down the expanse of his back. Other depictions of floral, ocean and mountain designs mimic that of Miyagi’s beauty, their bright hues a mosaic down to the middle of his back and biceps, easily covered by his shirts. It was strange, managing to bear something like a family crest and know what it represents—the surprisingly steadfast friendships, the undying commitment and the love he holds for his family.

He smiles, something pure hearted and endearing; _he was home._

\- ☼-

“Why do I have to tell him?” the black haired man asks with a quiver in his voice.

Tendou sighs, scratching at his cheek, “Well…we decided that you were the smallest and least likely to get shot down by him after hearing the news, so…best of luck to you…?” he tries, pushing the shorter man in the direction of the boss’s office.

Goshiki deflates, shuffling forward to knock on the wooden door. “U-uhm…Ushijima, sir? May I come in?”

A deep timbre sounds through the side of the door, “Come in.”

He opens the door and steps in, remaining in the doorway for a few moments, tense and awkward at the heavy, calculating gaze that studies him. The man sighs at the desk and beckons him forward, “On with it, Goshiki. I’m busy.”

“R-right…” he pauses, closing the door with a soft _‘click’_ and stepping forward. He takes a deep breath and puffs himself up, steeling his nerves and blurting out, “They stole our shipment!”

Ushijima narrows his eyes at the ravenette. “Who did what?”

Goshiki gulps, “A-another gang family must have gotten wind of our incoming artillery shipment and made the drop on our boys at the docks. They took what they could and pretty much destroyed the rest…”

Ushijima’s jaw tightens; the shipment was going to be a _huge_ breakthrough for them as arm’s dealers—as traders to the elite, in hopes of gaining connections and more power around their prefecture. This definitely put a damper on their agreements and was planned by someone, and whoever let the shipment details slip was going to _pay._

“Who?” he asks tightly.

“We’re not for certain. But the remaining witnesses noticed the all had strange hair, and one man had a crow tattoo exposed on his right shoulder. They were all relatively young, as well. It was down further in the Miyagi prefecture, and there’s really only one gang that resides there…” Goshiki trails off.

Ushjima glares at his desk, “Karasuno.”

Goshiki nods, his bobbed hair bouncing at the sharp movement.

“Tendou, Reon, Semi Eita. I know you’re outside the door. Come here,” his voice booms in command. The door swings open and the three come shuffling in, almost sheepish at being caught in their eavesdropping.

He looks at Semi Eita, “Find the one who leaked the information. When you find out, come tell me at once.”

The man nods his head in understanding. Ushijima then looks at the remaining three, “The rest of you are with me.”

Tendou raises a thin, red eyebrow. “What are we going to do, boss?”

His grandfather’s voice rings in his mind: _What do we do with pests, Ushijima?_

He stands up from his desk and smoothes out any creases in his finely pressed suit, grabbing his heavy, beige, woolen long coat and throwing it on, tucking his hands in its’ pockets. “We’re going to have a little chat.”

_We exterminate them._

\- ☼-

When they arrive at their destination, Reon stops the car as they all file out, Tendou walking to his side door and opening it for him to step out. He immediately surveys their surroundings—it’s almost grimey on the outside, an ancient-looking mechanic shop that smells of grease, oil, and rubber—crinkling his nose in disgust at the sight of the building. Though, it makes sense for some low-class, dirty peddlers to be living in the concrete like this. He takes long strides, his men at his flanks, stepping inside he garage space, immediately seizing up the two men working.

They looked like thugs—dressed in stained mechanic’s jumpsuits, one with his hair shaved completely off, eyes and mouth set to a feral sharpness when he spots the mob boss entering his domain. The other was a short man with a strange spiked hairstyle, some strands bleached into crispness and resting against forehead, large eyes staring at him like that of a bird interested in prey; they both at creeping tattoos that peeked around their necks.

_Got’cha._ They found the right place.

The one with the shaved head steps forward first, wiping his greased hands on a rag, eyeing the group up and down, “Can I help you?” he asks, country cockney thick in his lilt.

“I need to speak with Sugawara-san,” he says simply.

The two share a look before turning back, the shaven headed man cocking his head, “Follow me.”

Nishinoya glares at the trio as they walk past, and Ushijima almost finds it annoying; his business isn’t with them, only their boss.

The man knocks on the wall in the back of a supply closet, which immediately opens, showing them a small stairwell. “He’d be downstairs.”

He nods his thanks and walks past the man and the disinterested looking blond that guarded the door, carefully walking down the tight stairwell. When he reaches downstairs, he’s taken aback at the beautiful, modern speakeasy that resides in the basement of the shop—he wouldn’t have expected something like this to be here based on the look of the outside building.

Tendou whistles in admiration, looking around at the empty bar, “This is a swanky little joint, huh?”

Ushiijma shoots him a look, just as the man behind the bar counter pops up, eyes wide, “Oh! Can I help you, gentlemen?”

Tendou beams, smacking Ushijima’s back and then pushing him forward to the bar, “Yes, you can! I’d like a sake, and get a whiskey on the rocks for the boss man!”

The redhead smiles back, something bright and cheery and out of place for being in a mob-owned speakeasy. “Right away!”

Ushijima wants to throttle the gangly man. “That’s not why we’re here.”

The ginger man raises an eyebrow, but continues to pour drinks, setting them down the sake first on the bar top. “Oh? And why are you here?”

“I need to speak to Sugawara-san. Now,” he demands.

The redhead snorts, turning his back to the men, reaching up on his tiptoes to reach for a bottle of whiskey. “Didn’t anyone tell you to ask nicely for the things you want? That attitude will get you nowhere, mister.”

Reon narrows his eyes at the small back of the bartender, “Have a little respect, kid. Don’t you know who you’re talking to?”

He turns around, pausing in his ministrations of putting ice in the short, crystalline whiskey glass, the cubes smacking against the glass with a sharp _‘clink, clink, clink.’_ Honey eyes narrow as the rove over the tall, intimidating-looking man, lips pursed before they smack open, popping out a _“Nope!”_ , smacking the glass down in front of the brunette.

Ushijima bristles, “I’m Ushijima Wakatoshi, leader of the Shiratorizawa family.”

Hinata nods slowly, not understanding the significance of the statement, “Okay? What does that have to do with Sugawara-san?”

Ushijima scrubs a hand over his face in irritation, “I have reason to believe that _your boss_ stole a shipment of _very important_ items from me. I need to speak with him immediately.”

The bartender purses his lips to hide a grin, “No. Sorry, he’s actually not in right now. I can leave a message for him though?” he offers, rocking back on his heels.

Ushijima glares, “Look, I don’t expect filthy, peddling, street rats that reek of concrete, dirt and oil, that _steal_ other’s things for petty money to _understand_ the implications of their actions—“ he’s cut off in a flash.

The redhead whips around, blindingly fast, face sneered in an angry snarl. Small hands reach forward, wrapping around his necktie and yanking it forward with surprising strength, dragging his upper half down towards the bar, causing Ushijima’s airflow to cut off and choke in his throat; his hands flying out to slap against the wood to keep him from smacking his head. He whips out a long butterfly knife and stabs it through the long end of the necktie, skewering it in place against the flat of the bar, keeping him bent over in place. In the moment of chaotic confusion, the redhead manages to fling open two more butterfly knives, crisscrossing them in a display of threat against the lump of cartilage that sits at the base of his throat, their razor sharp edges pressing against the fragile, important arteries and veins of his carotid and jugular, the metal biting dangerously into the sensitive flesh.

His men react almost immediately once out of their stupor, mouths that were agape snapping shut, whipping out their pistols and trying their best to aim around Wakatoshi’s body at the redhead. The man grins wickedly, and Ushijima could only bring himself to stare. It was surreal, having to look up and take in every detail of the man who had him at his mercy—how he could see every outline and smile crease embedded in tanned, freckled skin, and each light divot of bone from his cheeks to his chin, and how the auburn curls flow down in gentle rivets against the crown of his head and down towards his ears. His features seemed almost too delicate, a complete contrast of those wicked, honey-brewing eyes, murderous intent evident in their captivating depths.

_‘Well that went from zero to disastrous really fast’_ he thinks to himself, schooling his features back into a stoney glare.

The man just giggles, chirping, “Didn’t you hear that it’s _rude_ to bring guns to a knife fight, Mister _Ushiwaka_? You’ll make an _excellent_ meat shield, though!”

The men behind him flounder, weapons lowering, and Ushijima snarls, the sound turning into a grunt of pain, as the auburn haired man _tsks_ , the weapons digging deeper into his tissues, enough to draw blood, the liquid warm against the cool metal of the blades as it trails down in small drips down the column of his throat.

The bartender’s gaze hardens into something fierce and burning, leaning forward close into Ushijima’s face, enough that his sweet, spicy smelling breath ghosts over Ushijima’s skin, making the flesh burn and tingle, “Now. Do you want to tell me what you said again?”

Ushijima grits his teeth and keeps his mouth shut, olive green eyes boring into smoldering ochre, utterly pissed at the man’s baseless self-confidence. “That’s what I thought,” he hums, leaning in closer to his ear, tipping his head as Ushijma’s breathing becoming raspy, whispering sweetly, “My name is Hinata Shōyōu. You’re going to remember my name, because this ‘ _kid’_ —this ‘ _little peddling street rat from the concrete’ made you_ fucking _bleed.”_

He steps back and removes the knives just as quickly as he placed them there—flicking them twice to remove excess blood before slipping them in his pockets as Ushijima relearns how to breathe. He takes up his dishrag and collects the two glasses, pouring out their contents in the small basin and wiping them out, grinning sharply at the men and turning his back, walking away in slow, languid strides towards a swinging door, “I suggest you get going. I’ll pass along your message to my boss,” he pauses in his strides, looking over his shoulder to say, “Oh, and I have a feeling we’ll be seeing each other _real_ soon, _Ushijima,_ ” he says with a wink and a chuckle, then disappearing from sight.

The trio stared in shock at the space where Hinata had once occupied, unable to say anything about what had just happened—out of confusion and out of fear of getting whacked by their boss. Ushijima straightens entirely, taking out a handkerchief and dabbing at the sides of his neck, pulling it back to inspect the blood stained cloth; he got him pretty good, enough to still recover some of the ooze and crusted clots from both sides of his neck.

“Let’s go,” he mutters, turning swiftly on his heels and heading out the way he came, not waiting to see if his men followed behind him. He ignores the curious stares from the other members of the gang, just choosing to head straight to the parked car, yanking open the door and sliding inside. The others slide in after him, and the car starts, and swiftly makes their exit, heading back home.

Part of him feels infuriated—with himself and with the auburn man—on how such a small _kid_ could get the better of him so easily, and how he let his guard down completely; it went against everything he had ever been taught, to never let your enemy see you weak and vulnerable. He had drastically failed that lesson, and he let Hinata see him submissive and at his mercy. It made him angry to be so easily dismissed and made unimportant, and not having the feared respect he had grown accoustomed to over the years as a leader.

The larger portion of him, however, was _interested_ —a feeling he isn’t wholly accustomed to when dealing with other people _._ He did feel a twinge of something akin to curiosity and almost _respect_ for the young man—how he could overlook the status of Ushijima and react to him so openly, so _confidently_ , and on his unwavering loyalty to his boss. He did hate the reckless valor the man had exuded during their _disagreement_ —seemingly at first glance that he wouldn’t have the strength or skills to back up his slight arrogance—but he had been proven wrong; Hinata was _fierce_ , a force to be reckoned with. He wanted to know more—the more he thought about the man, the more he wanted to figure out about Hinata. He tries to file his curiosity and interest under the guise of a situational fluke—that he needs to see the man once more, if just to prove that he isn’t so easily dismissible or made vulnerable.

 

He wants to know more. Ushijima smile turns wolfish as he thinks, head tilting back to rest against the leather seats.

_‘Yes. I’ll see you again.’_

_Ushijima likes a man whose tongue is sharper than his blades._

\- ☼-

Suga can’t say he’s entirely surprised to see Ushijima back at his shop just a couple of days later after the whole Hinata debacle; he’s just glad the younger man is out with the girls doing some shopping in the market, as he’s sure that’s the only reason Ushijima is even back here.

He motions for the boss to come sit down in front of him, a smile of welcoming on his lips. He steeples his hands gracefully on top of his desk, waiting for the large man to speak on what he wanted. Suga sighs after a moment of tense silence, “What can I help you with, Ushijima-san?”

“Where is Hinata Shōyōu?” he asks.

Suga raises a pale eyebrow, “What do you want our darling little bartender for?”

“I want to fight him,” he says bluntly.

Suga feels his mouth drop open in shock. He stutters, “You…uh. You what?”

“I want to fight Hinata Shōyōu,” he reiterates, “I want to show him that my defense isn’t so easily weakened in a real fight,” he pauses when he sees Suga’s concerned expression. “I have a training space, and there will be no weapons involved, do not worry.”

Suga narrows his eyes, “Why would I allow him to go with you, with no weapons, to fight you?”

Ushijima’s jaw tightens, “Because I know you stole my weapons, which is enough for me to declare all out war with your family. I will tear you apart.”

Suga turns to eye Sawamura that stood at his side, the two exchange looks in a secret kind of conversation.

“It is not my intent to kill him. I will do my best not to break him,” he tries once more, an eyebrow arched in question.

“That’s not my concern. I’m more worried about yo—“

A new voice pipes up from the doorway, “I’ll do it.”

Three heads whip to see the auburn haired man leaning up against the doorway, small grin hooking the corner of his mouth.

“Hinata! I wasn’t aware that you were back,” Suga says in a rush, standing from his chair.

“We just got home. I got the things you asked for!” he says with a smile, turning his attention to Ushijima, “So, _Ushiwaka._ When do we do this?”

Suga furrows his brows and mouths _‘Ushiwaka?’_ to Sawamura who shrugs. Ushijima frowns at the mocking nickname. “We can leave now, if you wish.”

“Excellent. Let me pack a bag!” he chirps, turning on his heel.

“Hinata!” Daichi calls, “You don’t have to do this, you know…”

He snorts, turning to look over his shoulder, “Yeah, I know. But pass up an opportunity like this? No way! I haven’t been in a good fight in _forever._ Plus, I learned from the best,” he says with a thumbs up.

Daichi gives him a look like an exasperated father, “Be careful. Don’t take it too far.”

He salutes and walks off, a skip in his step. Daichi turns to look at Ushijima, “What happens if he wins?”

Ushijima smirks, “I’m confident that won’t happen, but if it does…I guess I’ll be at his beck and call for whatever he demands.”

“Right…” he murmurs, looking to Suga. They share another look, one that’s skeptical, clearly stating, _‘he has no idea what he’s in for.’_

\- ☼-

The ride back to the Ushijima compound is silent and somewhat awkward, Hinata constantly fidgeting, his fingers drumming against the leather of the seats as he stares out the window. Ushijima is relieved when the car finally stops in the driveway, his agitation at the noise finally grating at his nerves—the way the kid gets under his skin is almost _unreal_.

“Follow me,” he says, leading the way down the driveway, and down a few corridors, opening up to a personal gym-like room, a large, matted space in the middle of the room for boxing and wrestling. A few of his men take post around the room, interested in watching the fight unfold, shared grins of excitement on their faces.

He points to a small screened off section in the corner, “You can change over there.”

He nods and readjusts the bag on his shoulder, walking over to the area and swiftly getting changed. Ushijima does the same, slipping out of his suit and changing into a pair of high-waisted, loose-legged boxing shorts, not bothering with wrapping his knuckles, the years of wear and tear enough to not warrant any extra barriers. He’s standing in the middle of the makeshift ring when Hinata steps out, and his eyes are immediately drawn to the smaller man’s body. He’s lean; layers of ropey muscle overlaying his bones, making them look taut and firm, his abdomen defined with light divots and swells of experienced and practiced tissue. His legs, though short, are _strong_ —thighs flexing with his steps, the smaller, tighter fabric of his shorts clinging to the skin of the upper leg and his round backside. The part that has him most fixated is his tattoo work; it’s absolutely beautiful, the colors blending expertly into his tanned skin and accenting his naturally auburn hair.

_‘He’s actually really attractive’,_ he thinks to himself, somewhat in shock, quickly quelling the rising flush to his cheeks and any other thoughts about the man.

Hinata smiles and stands across from him, “Any rules, Mister Ushiwaka?”

He deadpans at the nickname and shakes his head, “Nothing besides no weapons,” he pauses, eyeing his unwrapped knuckles, “Are you going to wrap your hands?”

“Excellent! And no,” he snorts, “I’m not that fragile,” his smile turns into a grin, a hand taunting him forward, “Whenever you’re ready.”

Ushijima grits his teeth and takes a few strides forward, hands posed in front of him, ready to strike or defend if need be. Hinata’s hands mirror his own, an almost manic grin of excitement stretched wide across his lips, bouncing on his feet as he strides forward as well. Ushijima strikes first, large fist coming to whip out with crushing force, aiming for the redhead’s jaw. Hinata’s quick reflexes help him duck, his body a quick blur of orange, dropping low and placing three quick jabs to the man’s thicker, unprotected abdomen before bouncing back up and jabbing the older man’s nose, that area now left unprotected as Ushijima tries to shield his abdomen. The cartilage creaks under the pressure, the fresh spew of blood trickling down into his lips.

He grunts against the blows, taking a step back and shaking his head, reorganizing his tactics. He swipes a hand over his bloodied nose and steps forward once more. _‘The little shit fights quick and dirty. Not bad.’_

He fakes the shorter man out; holding up his right hand as if to strike, making the auburnette dodge for a right handed attack, but actually swings with his dominant left hand, fist connecting with the boys jaw. Hinata yelps and stumbles back from the force. Ushijima takes the stumbling and uses it against the boy, a long leg darting out to kick at Hinata’s knees, sending the redhead tumbling with a squawk. He rolls onto his back just as Ushijima stomps down a powerful kick where his ribs were once, narrowly dodging the harsh blow. He scrabbles and jumps back up, immediately aiming for the brunette’s throat, the man averting his neck away from the jab. He grabs at the wrist and yanks it around, dislocating the bones making the redhead yelp, short legs rearing up as he leans back, placing a kick to his solar plexus. Ushijima grunts, feeling the hit already blossoming into a deep bruise. The redhead retreats to the opposite side of the ring, shaking out his wrist, crying out as he pulls the bones back into place.

_“Fuck,”_ he curses, spitting out the coagulated mass of spit and blood from his mouth, giving his wrist one last shake before he glares daggers at the taller man, chuckling airily and darkly, “Oh, you _asked_ for it, you bastard.”

Ushijima grins and mimics the hand gesture Hinata gave him from earlier. The auburn haired man bounces on his toes from the edge of the mats before turning and sprinting full force at the brunette, taking the man by surprise. He jumps high into the air, legs parallel with the height of Ushijima’s throat, spinning in the air as his legs open up, sliding around the taller mans throat and _squeezing_ , using the momentum to throw his upper torso back, dragging the man down to the ground. They land with a thud and Hinata is on him in an instant, using Ushijima’s shock as an advantage, pinning his arms down with his strong thighs, his left hand forced down on his throat to prevent any air from coming back to the already winded man, his right hand cocked back into a well-formed punch, the muscles tense and ready to spring forth in a snap against his eye; he finds himself wincing in preparation of the blow.

He stares at the young man in wonder as he gasps for air, again taken away by his delicate features twisted up into sharp lines of passionate fire. It’s impossible to think that someone like this exists—someone that could beat him so easily, _repetitively_. Hinata was a true challenge and his passion was almost contagious; he found that he didn’t mind that baseless valor much anymore, if it kept the younger man looking at him like _that—_ like he was _alive,_ completely set ablaze by the sheer presence of Ushijima, by the _challenge._ Ushijima finds himself grinning at the man poised above him, uncaring of the blood that crusts off of his upper lips, and much to his delight, Hinata grins back, his teeth stained pink from the blood in his mouth.

“Do you yield?” he asks, giving another squeeze to Ushijima’s throat.

Ushijima wiggles his wrist, tapping against the ground. The pressure immediately lets up, and air rushes back into his lungs, mouth open and gasping, though Hinata remains on top of him, giving him a couple of harsh slaps to the side of the face. Ushijima groans, “Where did you even learn how to do that?”

Hinata giggles, sliding off of Ushijima and sitting next to him, ignoring the still shell shocked whispers and looks from Ushijima’s minions, “Well, you learn a few things from living on the streets. Add some fine-tuning, and you got a pretty good arsenal of attacks,” he bites on his lips to prevent himself from grinning like an idiot. “I guess a street rat can get through your defense, huh?”

Ushijima can’t help but roll his eyes, “Yes, I retract my previous statements…I’d hate to see what you do with a knife if you’re like this in the ring.”

Hinata flushes a pretty red and just shrugs, Ushijima sits up after a moment and sighs, “Well, you won. So, what do you want? I promised that you could have whatever.”

Hinata’s eyes widen, “O-oh. Uh…” he scratches at the nape of his neck, pursing his lips, “Can I have some food? I’m starving, I didn’t get a chance to eat before coming here.”

Ushijima blinks at the man, “All you want is food?”

He nods, “Preferably meat buns.”

“…Sure,” he says slowly, standing up. He looks to his men at the doorway. “Well, you heard the man. Time for an early dinner.”

Hinata grins and whoops out a _‘Yes!’_ bouncing to his feet and trotting to where his clothes are laid, quickly changing back into his pair of beige corduroy slacks and button up.

He shakes his head as he turns from the man, working on gathering his own things. _‘What a strange man.’_

_He strangely feels like their becoming friends._

\- ☼-

Dinner is surprisingly pleasant. He knows what they must look like—covered in bandages, crusted scabs on their faces and knuckles swollen and inflamed from violent strikes, their bruises like morning glory blooms against skin, flared and molted in color—but he can’t bring himself to care, to absorbed in his strange guest to notice the strange and questioning looks.

He discovers that Hinata has a stomach that could count for four people, and is incredibly chatty, easily talking to everyone at the table, as if he was meant to be there as one of the family. He begins to learn about the man; it’s not as if he’s a closed book, like Ushijima considers himself to be, easily sharing details about his life, family and interests, about his tattoos and about his partner in crime and their affinity for pyrotechnics—accentuating his words with cries of _‘gwah!’_ and _‘hwaaah!’_ , hands gesticulating wildly in front of him to display his thoughts and feelings further than he believes his words capable.

Ushijima finds him interesting, and doesn’t actually mind the man’s continuous chatting. His sunny disposition is adding an extra bit of light and life to the table, which is generally somewhat quiet and subdued during their meals. It’s a nice change, seeing his family chatting happily and excitably with Hinata. It’s as if the auburnette had a gravitational pull about him, which makes him instantly likeable, easily making steadfast friends with even the most prickly of people.

Wakatoshi can’t help the small smile that twitches on his lips as he glances around the room; his eyes land on Tendou who is seated to his left and startles at the look he’s given—it’s something strange and somewhat unnerving, like he’s trying to decipher a puzzle presented in front of him, and also as if he knows something that Ushijima doesn’t, and is awfully smug about it. He raises a thick brow at him in question, just receiving a shake of the head in response. Ushijima narrows his eyes but lets it drop, knowing he’ll just ask about it later on.

Once it reaches early nighttime, he almost begrudgingly sends Hinata home a little worse for wear.

Hinata promises they’ll see each other again soon, and he genuinely looks forward to it.

\- ☼-

It’s two weeks before he travels back to Karasuno to see the auburn haired man, enough time for the wounds to heal into dull reminders of their last meeting. Once he arrives at the bar, a familiar sense of comforting warmth creeps in the pit of his stomach when he sees the man. They go out for food, Hinata showing him some of the best parts of his town—showing him he mountains and flowers that correspond in their respective colors to that in which he has poked into his skin—and it’s honestly beautiful and peaceful, almost as if it’s home. He even took the time and introduced him to a few of the members of his gang. They eye him warily at first, not too pleased to meet the man who threatened the safety of their gang member and also their family as a whole, but soon they find themselves opening up and joking with him as easily as Hinata does.

It becomes a regular thing, for one of them to travel to see the other, sometimes staying to eat with the gang’s, taking time to spar, or just talking at the bar over drinks. Ushijima enjoys their time together, and they become thick as thieves—almost inseparable at times—and he couldn’t have asked for a better outcome to their fated original meeting.

He remembers the strange look Tendou had given him at dinner on that first night Hinata was over at their compound, and decides to seek the man out to ask him about it. He finds the crazy haired man leaning over the outside rails of the porch, deep in thought. He sidles up next to him and mirrors his leaning, taking a deep breath and huffing it out. After a moment, he asks him.

“I’ve just never seen you look that genuinely happy before,” he says with a shrug, cigarette perched lightly between his lips.

“I am happy. I believe I have made a very good friend,” he finds himself clarifying.

Tendou hums as he blows smoke out of his nose, flicking the end of the butt to clear the ash that gathered, eyes fixated at the stars visible twinkling overhead. “Friends, huh? Friends don’t _normally_ beat the shit out of each other first.”

Ushijima chuckles, “Well, I don’t think Hinata is a normal case.”

Tendou relents, “That is true. Seeing him again this week?”

He nods slowly, not offering up anything else in response. They spend the rest of Tendou’s cigarette in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

Hinata isn’t brought up again until after he comes home from their scrimmage. He’s sitting at the head of the dinner table, eating pieces of his grilled mackerel when he catches Tendou giving him that same strange look, only that Reon has joined in, his expression tight and almost concerned.

He looks between the two, suddenly wary, “What?”

“Ushijima, have you ever had a girlfriend?” Tendou pipes up, hand resting in his chin.

He stops his chewing and narrows his eyes, “Why?”

He shrugs, “Well, we’ve just never seen ya’ with a nice doll is all. Just curious.”

Wakatoshi swallows his food and dabs at his mouth with a napkin, “No. I had no time for anything like that, as I was being raised to know how to kill people and run a mob family.”

Tendou scratches at his face, “Right, right…” he pauses, “Do you ever want to?”

“Want to what?” he asks, confused.

Reon cuts in, “Make time for romance? You know, meet someone, have sex, fall in _love_? That kind of thing?”

He flushes, “What—who would I even do that with? I don’t have time, nor do I have the desire to.”

Tendou tries a different route, “When are you seeing Hinata again?”

Ushijima sets his chopsticks down and sighs in exasperation, “What does he have to do with anything?”

Reon and Tendou give him a knowing look, their eyebrows raised as they wait for Ushijima to make the connection.

“What?” he snaps in irritation.

The two sigh wave him to stand up, “Come with us.”

Ushijima sighs in confusion and obliges, excusing himself from the meal. He follows the two down the hall and into his office, where they click the door closed. He sits up against the edge of his desk, gesturing a hand for them to continue.

The wait a moment, lips pursed. “Well, we only ask because we’re your friends as well as your family, and we’re just…curious is all…”

“Curious about what? I honestly don’t understand.”

“Ushijima, have you ever been with a man?” Reon asks gently.

Ushijima finds himself tilting his head to the side, “No? Why?”

Tendou holds up a hand, “Have you ever actually thought about this at all?”

He shakes his head, which causes Tendou to groan. “Of course not.”

He shrugs, “I don’t see a problem with it, though. I have known many men of higher power to enjoy sex with both men and women partners, and it is displayed in many forms of ancient history and in the arts. So, what does it matter?” he looks between the two and his eyes widen, “Oh, are you two seeing each other? Congratulations, thank you for telling me.”

Tendou flushes bright red as Reon smacks a hand over his face. “No, no, _no. Wakatoshi_. We’re not dating. We’re asking because we thought that perhaps you were interested in the redheaded kid. You two are… _close._ ”

Ushijima blinks, “Oh.”

He could understand how they could perceive him as being gay—with no significant other or obvious sexual tirades; it even makes him pause to think about it. He never took the time to really think about, being much to absorbed in his life and rebuilding his mob from the core, always too focused and driven to stop and consider what was and wasn’t normal for a man his age. He supposes he could think of Hinata in that way—he does make him _happy_ , sometimes unbearably so, a new feeling he is somewhat addicted to, not accustomed to the surprising gentleness and easy tranquility and safety the other’s presence provides for him. The younger man is terribly attractive as well—something wildly free and fiery, with his silky looking curls, soft set mouth, brilliant tattoos and captivating eyes. He also respected him as well, in his resilience and incredible strength, and in his ability to provide for his family and his little sister.

_Oh._

“Is—would that be weird?” he asks, almost breathless.

Tendou shrugs, “In the public’s eyes…yes. To us, no. You know we are one hundred percent devoted to you, and it’s not just because you could easily kill us all. We’re your friends—your _family_.”

Reon grins and nods his head in agreement, “What you decide to do is your business. Besides, you said you don’t mind the idea, right?”

“Right…Thank you.” he murmurs.

They nod, “We’ll…leave you to think on it,” Tendou says, receiving a nod in confirmation.

Ever since then, Ushijima can’t help but over-analyze everything he does with the young man—every smile, every giggle, and every lingering touch. It’s starting to drive him crazy, not being able to concentrate on anything besides Hinata, thoughts of the young man taking over the forefront of his mind.

He knows what he wants to do— _knows what he_ has _to do_ —if he wants to resolve these thoughts.

The next time he goes to see Hinata, he stops in to talk to Sugawara first. The two men are staring at the man in pure shock, still trying to piece together what he says, the words so blatant and straightforward.

“Okay, wait a minute. Say that again?” Sawamura says, scrubbing a hand over his eyes, hard enough to see starbursts behind his eyes.

“I’d like to start courting Hinata Shōyōu. If that is okay with Sugawara-san and Hinata, of course.”

“Do you even know if Hinata likes…men? You know that’s not the…easiest thing to ask about, yeah?” Sawamura asks, arms crossed.

“Well, no. But that’s the point in asking, after all,” he says simply.

Suga sighs, “And to think you threatened us only a few months ago with an all out _war_ if we didn’t let Hinata fight you,” he purses his lips, “Why should I allow this?”

Ushijima straightens in his seat, “I believe we make a good match, as our friendship is natural and easy. I also can offer him protection further in the neighboring prefectures, relief from any potential financial difficulties he may face, as well as stability between our two families as well. I believe it would be…beneficial to Shiratorizawa as well as Karasuno. Like an unofficial ‘uniting,’ of sorts,” he explains, beginning to feel nervous about potential rejection. “Do you not believe us to be suited for each other, or do you two have issues with it? I would have thought you two would be the most understanding, see as you are together,” he asks in confusion.

Daichi startles, “Wait, what? How did you—“

“It is obvious, Sawamura-san. You look at Sugawara as I imagine I often look at Hinata,” he states.

Suga asks quietly, a small smile on his lips, “And how is that?”

Ushijima’s lips twitch in the corners, “Full of adoration.”

Suga’s smile stretches, a blush gracing his cheeks and all the way to his ears. After a moment he nods, holding out his hand for Ushijima, “You may ask our darling Hinata Shōyōu for courtship, if he agrees.”

Ushijima takes the hand lightly and places a chaste kiss atop the digits, causing Suga to chuckle. “You are quite the gentlemen. You do make a good match, and I agree with what you say about our two families… I think your blossoming romance will be mutually beneficial grounds on making an alliance, you know, to strengthen our ties.”

He nods in agreement, bowing lowly to the ashen haired man and his lover, “Thank you,” he pauses before he turns to leave, he asks quietly, face open and vulnerable for a moment, “Do you think he’ll say no?”

Suga blinks at his expression, thinking for a moment. “Well, I know he doesn’t oppose the idea. He has, uh… _found us in compromising positions before_ \--” he chuckles when Sawamura smacks his arm with a furious blush, “--and didn’t seem to disgusted, only saying it was like seeing his parents have sex,” he scrunches his eyebrows, muttering under his breath, “I guess that makes sense, we did kind of adopt him…” he clears his throat, “He also seems to be absolutely besotted with you, so I wouldn’t see any cause for worry. Just treat him well,” he smiles dark and sweet at the boss, “Or I will personally skin you alive, make you into a coat, and wear it to your funeral.”

Ushijima swallows and nods quickly, turning around walking out the door, taking heed of Suga’s warning—he didn’t want to upset the devil of Karasuno. He walks out of the swinging door, nodding his hello’s to any of the Karasuno members he sees, eyes seeking out the familiar shock of orange hair.

He finds the young man perched on top of the counter of the bar, feet swinging as he speaks animatedly with his friend, whom he has learned was Kageyama Tobio—a surly and somewhat reclusive young man, talented at making bombs and not much else it seems (or so his family teases).

Honey eyes land on him and they immediately perk up, chirping a _“Hey Ushiwaka!”_ and waving erratically. Ushijima can’t help the flutter of excitement, adoration and nerves that wriggle in his stomach; he really was too cute sometimes. He steps up to the pair, saying a quick hello to the ravenette who nods back, looking to the shorter man.

“Hello, Hinata. May I have a moment? I need to speak with you,” he asks, trying to keep his voice steady.

He cocks his head to the side, “Oh, sure thing.” He hops down from the counter and waves goodbye to his friend, following Ushijima outside, next to the car. “What’s going on, Ushijima? Everything okay?” he asks, concerned.

He swallows the lump in his throat and nods, “Yeah. Hinata, I…I’m just going to be honest. I talked to Sugawara-san today.”

“Suga? What for?”

He takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly from his nose, “I asked if I could court you,” he asks firmly.

Honey eyes widen, small mouth falling open, “Court? Me?” he points at himself.

He nods quickly, feeling his palms begin to sweat. “If you’d like to,” seeing the still-shocked expression on the young man’s face, he begins to panic, starting to ramble out, “It would be beneficial to both of us, as well as our respective families, seeing as you are close to the coast and we are more inland, which would open up more trade and commerce opportunities. We could make an alliance and expand our territories—“ he cuts off when Hinata starts to giggle, hand clasped over his mouth, eyes crinkled at the corners in a smile. “What?” he asks, breathless.

“Of course I’ll date you Ushiwaka, don’t be an idiot. Even if all of those things weren’t being offered, I’d still say yes.”

“Yes?”

He nods, auburn curls bobbing, “Yes! You take my breath away!”

He huffs, rubbing a hand through his choppy brunette hair.

“What is it?” Hinata asks, stepping closer.

He shakes his head, a smile on his face—wide, genuine, and _peaceful._ “I-it’s just…the sudden realization that I’m _crazy_ about you.”

Hinata beams, bouncing on his feet in excitement, a beautiful cherry red blush decorating his cheeks and tips of his ears. “So!” he chirps, “Does that mean today can count as a date?”

Ushijima nods, offering his hand and opening the car door, helping him slide inside, “Of course. I was thinking of treating you to meat buns. I know they’re your favorite.”

Hinata’s eyes soften, “You’re absolutely wonderful.”

Ushijima reaches forward to intimately caress his cheek, tucking a loose lock of hair behind his ear, “Because of you.”

\- ☼-

It happens randomly one afternoon when they’re sparring. Wakatoshi has gotten better at learning to read the younger man’s movements, reducing the severity in which he’s beaten, and even winning sometimes; it’s exciting, the rush he feels as they try and take each other down, to get each other to submit, a languid dance of powerful jabs and lightning reflexes. Hinata runs at him and manages to latch his legs around Ushijima’s middle. Instead of stumbling against the added weight, he uses the momentum from the redhead against him, twisting around to bring Hinata falling down to his back, his own falling after him. Hinata hits the ground with a gasp, air escaping him in a rush, and Ushijima catches himself just before he falls completely on the smaller man, easily pinning the boy down with his hips. He hovers over him, watching the parted lips taking in gasping breaths as he wiggles, trying to find a vantage point in which to strike back.

Hinata gasps suddenly when their pelvises rub together, a delicious jolt shivering down his spine. He freezes in place, eyes wide as he stares into Hinata’s own startled gaze.

Ushijima whips his head up to look at the trio guarding the door; he jerks his head towards the door, telling them blatantly to get lost. Tendou wiggles his eyebrows and winks shutting the door after they had all filed out.

“I-I.., uh! S-sorry!” he tries to say in a shrill voice, head whipping to look for an exit. Ushijima shakes his head and experimentally grinds his hips down once more, eliciting a sweet gasp from those plump lips.

“Is this okay?” Ushijima breathes.

Hinata nods quickly, his hair splayed out flat against the matted floor in a skewed, sweat-slicked halo. Ushijima rocks his hips once more, receiving the same airy, throaty noise; he bites down his bottom lip to keep from groaning at the friction, his cock becoming hard in his shorts.

_“Wakatoshi,”_ Hinata gasps, hands reaching up to thread through the short, choppy locks at the nape of his neck.

_He loses it_ , immediately groaning low in his throat, leaning forward to capture Hinata’s lips in a searing kiss. It’s still awkward and inexperienced—completely their own and _addicting_ —teeth nipping at saliva slicked lips and the salty skin of each other’s jaws and necks, intent to explore and taste as much of each other as they could. Ushijima travels lower, leaving a series of warm kisses down his abdomen, fingers splayed against the flesh of his hips, tips of the digits finding their way under the waistband of Hinata’s boxing shorts.

He looks up to Hinata who flushes, shyly looking away and nodding, lifting his hips to allow the older man to slide the shorts down. He groans, gaze snapping back to Wakatoshi when he feels a large, warm hand trace the underside of his cock. The hands that were still tugging at Ushijima’s hair travel down and fumble at Ushijima’s waist, shaky fingers trying to push the fabric there down.

Ushijima chuckles and assists the insistent hands, pushing his own shorts down his hips. He slowly lowers his weight down, using one hand to support himself up, his hips sliding against Hinata’s smaller ones, applying a delicious friction to both of their aching cocks. Wakatoshi brings his free hand to his mouth and spits, bringing it back down to slick up both of their swollen penises, taking both in his larger hand and stroking.

Hinata’s back arcs and he moans, head smacking back into the floor, a hand flying up to muffle his noises of pleasure. Ushijima frowns, pausing in his ministrations to swat the hand away, almost offended at his lover’s attempts at quieting himself. He leans down, nipping at the shell of his ear, whispering, “I want to hear you.”

The ginger whines, body wriggling as he tried to gain more friction. “ _M-more. Faster.”_

He obliges, picking up his pace, teeth biting into the junction of Hinata’s shoulder and neck, the mark going unseen under the layers of ink placed under the tanned skin. He pulls his face back for a moment, taking in the sight of the smaller man—he relished in the sight of him, completely spread wide and disheveled, hair and clothing skewed. His pupils were blown wide, completely swallowing the ochre of his irises, his pink bitten lips dropped open in a ‘o’, silent, raspy gasps easily escaping into the air, his whines mixing into incoherent babbles of his name and curses.

A pulse shoots through his cock and he groans, “ _Shōyōu,”_

The man tenses and cries out, eyes slipping shut as his face becomes an image of complete ecstasy, his orgasm ripping through his body, making his legs shake and toes curl in bliss.

He curses, giving a few final pumps to himself, sending himself over the edge, his cum pooling on Hinata’s smooth abdomen, the formation of his lover’s name dribbling past his lips. He pants, rolling over to lie besides Hinata, arm exhausted from supporting himself for so long.

They take a moment to collect themselves before Hinata turns to look at Ushijima, a lazy smile on his lips. “Hey, Ushiwaka?”

The man rolls his eyes but feels himself smiling, “Yes, _Shōyōu?_ ”

Hinata shivers at hearing his name, his grin widening, “I think I love you.”

Ushijima’s eyes widen, _“Oh,”_ he breathes, taking a moment to process the statement fully, “I think I love you, too.”

He giggles, the sound fresh like new coming spring, “I’m glad.”

_Ushijima is too._

\- ☼-

Ushijima winces as the last drags of ink are stabbed into the flesh of his back. Kiyoko and Yachi hum, appraising their handiwork as they lean back, unfolding their numb legs. They had been working nonstop on Ushijima’s tattoo—a representation of his alliance with Karasuno. A lightly shaded eagle was jotted into the flesh of his shoulders and back, much in the same fashion as Karasuno’s traditional crows, the feathers shimmering in their outlines of a reddish-purple color, additions of scenery similar to that of his region of Tokyo lining down his biceps and to his wrists. Their expertise blended the hues and shapes together seamlessly, creating a mosaic masterpiece, the new modification to his body flowing with every dip and curve of his bone and muscle tissue.

Hinata coos in awe, eyes sparkling and wide as he stares at every inch of decorated flesh. “Ushijima! It looks _beautiful!_ ” he turns to the two talented artists, “You two are as amazing as ever!”

Kiyoko smiles and wipes down her tools as Yachi giggles and shoos a hand at the redhead, “You’re too kind. But what do you think, Ushijima-san?” she asks tentatively—expectantly— handing him a hand mirror.

He takes it all in, turning the mirror this way and that, eyeing every single painstaking detail that was poured into the piece of art he gets the honor of displaying on his body. It’s everything he could have hoped for—a physical representation of the bond Shiratorizawa now shares with Karasuno, the ink inseparable from his body, like the alliance between the two mob families— just as his love for Hinata has entwined itself into his very soul. He pauses in his search when he spots the small crow above his heart—the basic outline of a crow silhouette with a half orange sun highlighting behind it. He smiles, gaze softening at the small, last minute addition, fingers ghosting over its form, knowing that Hinata has a similar one, in the shades his eagle is tattooed in, right over his own heart.

He turns to Yachi and Kiyoko, bow his head in thanks, “It’s perfect. Thank you very much for your talents and hard work.”

The smile at him, and he turns his head when he feels a small hand worm it’s way into his own. Hinata is positively beaming as he leans in to kiss his cheek, pausing by his ear to whisper in his ear, _“Welcome home.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for taking the time to comment, leave kudos, and read!! 
> 
> If anyone is interested, the alternate song for this week would have been 'Tessellate' by Alt-J. 
> 
> Lots of love!!! xoxox
> 
> You can come chat with me at:
> 
> @tangy-tangible-tangelos (main) or my Haikyuu!! blog @asahisglassheart


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